


yeah, you wish

by ftera



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Airports, Dean and Cas being idiots, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Pilot Castiel, References to Past Torture (briefly), the slowest of slow burns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-14 02:18:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2174322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ftera/pseuds/ftera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a small island off the New England coast that is a popular vacation and holiday spot for anyone who enjoys relaxing by the sea and being surrounded by small town folk and ma and pop shops. Paradise Air is the premiere (and cheapest) airline for the island and hosts a variety of characters within its walls.</p><p>Dean Winchester has been living on the island since he was 12 years old and, after being injured while flying for the navy overseas, he’s ready to relax and just work on planes at the airport for the rest of his days.</p><p>But then, of course, the airport gets a new pilot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. it's not a love story

**Author's Note:**

> So I stumbled upon the best au ever a couple of months ago and [ashley](http://thimblings.tumblr.com/) is basically a huge sweetheart and gave me a go-ahead to write a fic for her fantastic [au](http://askparadiseair.tumblr.com/)  
> (credit to Ashley for the summary, as well.)
> 
> Sorry for the super short beginning but I felt like this was good enough for a starter, so enjoy! uwu
> 
>  
> 
> ~~haha guess who knows nothing about planes~~

If it was a love story, it would’ve started out differently.

Maybe something extraordinary would’ve happened. Maybe their eyes would have met and fireworks would’ve gone off in their heads. Maybe they would smile— shyly, of course, because people that look _that_ good shouldn’t exist, right? Maybe after that they’d exchange names, maybe numbers, keep smiling at each other and laugh and blush. They’d go on dates, and they’d fall in love slowly but surely, and they’d spend the rest of their lives together, happily married with 2.5 kids and a dog and a white picket fence.

The day Dean first sees the new pilot, nothing out of the ordinary happens.

Chuck is still sitting in the closest seat to what Dean likes to call the pamphlet shelf, his face in his hands and his second cup of coffee sitting out in front of him. (Dean is almost positive that he didn’t go home last night— but, then again, Dean doesn’t even know if the guy has a home.)  Ellen is in the kitchen cooking breakfast for Sam, who’s sitting at the lunch counter looking over the notes for one of his classes.  Jo is behind the cash register, smirking at Samandriel, who is late (again) and is scrambling to find his apron, which Dean may or may not have switched out with the one that has the “Alfie” name tag again, just to piss him off a little.

Dean is sweeping up the floor, which is usually Chuck’s job, but right now Chuck is amidst writing another book. Dean doesn’t mind picking up on the slack, really, mostly because it gives him an excuse not to cook breakfast. Nevermind that most people order a coffee in the mornings before moving along, he likes to avoid the rush of sleepy, irritable flyers.

Across the airport, next to the receptionist’s desk, Crowley is standing outside his office door talking to someone. Dean can’t get a good enough angle to tell, so he isn’t quite sure who it is at first, but he’s got a feeling that this is the new pilot that someone started a rumor about. Dean can’t help it— he’s curious, so, _yeah_ , he’s going to look.

Of course, it’s just his luck that at the same time, Crowley heads into his office and the stranger half turns a little and notices Dean staring. Caught, Dean blushes (actually blushes, Jesus), and, as if to make it worse, the guy fucking smiles at him and then winks ( _winks_! Who _is_ this guy?) before following Crowley into his office.

“Who was that asshole?” Dean manages to ask, trying to cover the fact that his entire face has turned a bright red. This hasn’t happened in years.

“Beats me,” Sam says. He doesn’t even bother turning around.

Dean doesn’t see him for another three months.


	2. reacquainting yourself with the ground

Sam is, of course, the first one to actually introduce himself to the new pilot. The guy is walking around with Gabriel, but Sam won't count that because there's something about the expression on the stranger's face that screams _exasperated younger sibling_ , so Sam gets that completely. He might take pity on the guy, too, because no one should have to deal with the horror of being related to Gabriel.

The two of them walk into Ellen's diner together at a slow pace, Gabriel gesturing towards people as they go. He points towards Jo, standing next to the coffee machine talking to Victor which, yes, Sam will make fun of her for later. There's a vague motion towards the kitchen, where Ellen is cooking, and then at Samandriel at the cash register. When he gets to Sam though, standing behind the counter, he stops. It might have something to do with the fact that Sam had been staring, but he's curious, so sue him.

"Hiya, Sammy," Gabriel exclaims, pulling out a bar stool for him to sit on. Skeptical, Sam sets down a cup he had been drying as the new guy follows Gabriel's actions.

"Hi, Gabe." His eyes move, again, to the unfamiliar face. There's a computer-like thought pattern in Sam's brain, and he can feel it now, opening up the _pilot_ folder and creating a new document with no title. The document feels too blank, filled with a basic general physical appearance and a few question marks after the phrase 'Gabriel's brother'. He wants to close the file down, delete it and forget about it, but brains don't really work like that, so he settles on pulling up Gabriel's document, letting the stranger's sit in the background, waiting. "So who's your friend?"

Gabriel pats the guy on the back, and he doesn't do much more than wince as a response. "Sammy, meet my brother, Castiel. Cassie, this is Sam Winchester. He's only here ninety-nine percent of the time when he's not doing nerdy school things." He leans in a little closer, then, towards his brother. "I've been trying to get this kid out of this madhouse but he keeps coming back. It's probably because of my dashing good looks, to be honest."

Castiel snorts. "Unless he's got issues with his eyesight, I highly doubt that."

Frowning, Gabriel leans back in his seat. "Last time I get you Christmas presents," he mutters.

Sam rolls his eyes at the display, rapping his knuckles against the countertop. "So did you actually need something or is this just a casual drop-in?"

"I've come to show Cassie the staff! Speaking of, where's that annoying as hell brother of yours?" Gabriel glances around as if he's waiting for Dean to jump out and scare him.

"He's in Boston right now helping Garth with who knows what. Something about decoding, I think. Plus I think he wanted to get his hip checked out. He was complaining that it was starting to ache," he tells them, his own hands moving towards his hips as if in sympathy. "I'm filling in for him until he gets back on his feet."

"Ain't that a bitch. How long will he be gone?" Gabriel asks, leaning back away from the counter.

Considerately, Sam pulls out a menu and casually slides it in front of the pair. For Gabriel, "conversation" usually means "a healthy, large breakfast". So maybe Sam's taking advantage because he knows Gabriel likes to tip, regardless of where he’s at. Sue him. "He's only going to be gone for a month or so, but if he's getting hip surgery then he'll need a few more weeks for recovery."

Gabriel makes a sympathetic noise, grabbing the menu with eager fingers. He only glances at it for a second before looking to his right. “What do you want?”

The pilot, his name is Castiel, Sam reminds himself, pulling the document back up to give it a name, glances over at him, something sharp and bitter in his eyes. "I don’t think I should—”

“Cassie,” he says, his tone both something soft and something final, and Sam looks away because he’s heard Dean use that tone before and he’s never been particularly fond of it. “Let me buy you some lunch. It’s no big deal. Besides, Ellen’s the best cook around. She’d be insulted if you came in here without ordering something.”

Unable to help himself, Sam snorts. “Ellen’s the only cook around.”

“I heard that, Sam!” Ellen’s voice echoes from inside the kitchen which, yes, Sam should’ve expected.

Smug, Gabriel sits back and shoves the menu towards Castiel. While his brother takes the offending laminated paper with gentle fingers, he turns back to Sam. “So how’s school going? What classes are you taking? Did you meet any cute girls yet?”

He picks up another cup to keep himself busy and dries that one. “I only just started classes a few weeks ago, Gabe. I’m not taking anything too outrageous, I think, but I did sign up for a theology course, so that’ll be interesting.”

Castiel’s head snaps up, and Sam’s pretty sure he hears Gabriel say “Not this again” under his breath before, “Did you say theology?”

“I— Yeah,” he mutters, not understanding the sudden interest.

“It's an interesting subject. I'd only recommend it if you're interested in that kind of thing. I know people who have taken it thinking that it would be an easy course, but it requires a lot of self-reflecting and dedication. If you ever needed assistance, I'd be willing to help you.” He says it hesitantly, though, as if he isn’t quite sure that’s what he wants to say.

Sam blinks, glancing over at Gabriel with a raised eyebrow. He gets an answering sigh in return. “Dad and big brother Luke are religion professors. I’m pretty sure Castiel is the only one who listened to them when they went off on rants about it.”

“They had some good points,” Castiel reasons, but there’s something relenting in the set of his shoulders that suggests that they’ve gone over this before, time and time again, and he’s tired of talking about it.

“Sure, yeah, thanks,” Sam says, just to make sure no one breaks out in an argument. “Are you guys going to order something or just hold the menu all day?”

Grinning, Gabriel leans against the counter. “Breakfast special, Sammy, just how I like it.” Sam turns towards Castiel, who quietly mutters something about French toast, before moving into the kitchen to give Ellen the order. When he comes back, the brothers are staring at each other, but Sam ignores it in favor of drying a plate.

“So,” Gabriel speaks up, a wicked grin on his face, “what about the girls, then?”

And, yeah, Sam should’ve seen that coming.

 

* * *

 

He's pretty sure it means something when, within a week, Castiel's presence becomes more welcome than half of the airport staff. It helps that Castiel is mostly silent, usually observing rather than commenting on things; it helps that he comes into the diner with soft smiles and kind eyes. He'll peer over Sam's shoulder if he's working on something, and he's overcome, often, with the thought of how smart Castiel is when the older man goes to point out something that Sam might've overlooked.

But Castiel isn't just smart, and he's not always silent, either.

Sam watches the relaxed line of Castiel's shoulders around the other pilots, the light teases he exchanges with Ellen, who decided she liked him when he heavily complimented her cooking the first time he tried it. Sam will notice the way Meg leans into his space, how each time he'll roll his eyes and say something that will cause her to laugh and move away. He can pull full conversations out of Chuck, which is close to pulling nails out concrete when he's trying to write a new book. Samandriel loves him almost instantly, though Sam chalks that up to Castiel actually referring to him by his name and not by Alfie. Jo, grudgingly, gives him her respect when he drinks her under the table the first time they all go out with the new pilot. Anna begins to treat him like a brother, though sometimes Sam is unsure if Anna is trying to make Castiel an older brother figure or a younger brother figure. Even Balthazar, who is always silent and a mystery to everyone in the airport, talks with Castiel, laughs with him.

He, also, puts Gabriel in his place so, hey, Sam isn't complaining.

It doesn't actually occur to him that they might be _friends_ until one day Sam hands him a cup of coffee— two sugars, one cream— before Castiel can even ask for it. Sam doesn’t even think about it until a little bit later when he goes to hand Castiel a menu. Castiel just flashes him one small, tiny grin before ordering what he always does when he has time to sit down and eat, which is usually just a generously cheesey omelette or, like the first day, French toast.

It’s not so much that fact that Sam’s memorized his order, because Sam has done that with a lot of the staff. It’s the fact that he can’t tell _when_ , exactly, this first started. The Castiel document in his head has filled up surprisingly fast, and it shouldn’t be that full so soon, because Sam doesn’t even _know_ anything about Castiel. Except, at the same time, he does, because Castiel’s personality seems to spell most of it out for him already.

Everything else is just details, things Sam doesn’t necessarily have any need for.

He’s watched Castiel around other people, stored notes for how some were treated different than others. He knows that, for the most part, Castiel gets along with almost everyone. He notices how Castiel smiles wider when he’s faking it. He's observed Cas's 'snark first, serious later' attitude in action around a few of the staff, even after they've warmed up to him, He sees, sometimes, Castiel’s hands shaking when he’s holding his coffee cup, and the first time Sam had chalked it up to just being antsy, but the second and third and fourth time, he’d wondered if it was something happened often.

But the thing about Castiel is that he treats the ground like it’s something he only tolerates, and Sam’s seen that sort of nervous jittering in someone before.

It’s why he widely narrows the bottom of his file for Castiel’s notes, because the last line reads his brother’s name with a question mark, and Sam isn’t sure what to make of it.

 

* * *

 

True to his word, Dean comes back almost two months later.

Not much changes after his initial arrival. Sam still covers for him at the diner and Dean stays in his apartment “on the mend”, which Sam knows Dean is pissed about, but whatever. His brother can just learn to deal with it. Planes still fly in and out of the airport and tourists still make their way to sunny beaches. The sun still rises and sets the same way it usually does. Just because Dean is home does not mean that the world stops for him.

Sam checks in with him often, at lunch and as soon as he gets off his shift, between classes and after them, and begins to spend more and more time at Dean’s apartment like he usually does. This only seems to make Dean _more_ grouchy. Once or twice he snaps at Sam, and one night he even asks how Sam is supposed to get laid when he’s hanging around Dean’s apartment doing homework, but Sam pointedly ignores that particular comment because Dean is an idiot and he knows that Dean just wants to sulk in peace.

The presence of Benny helps, sometimes. Sam’s well-adjusted to their odd friendship, knows he can trust Benny to take care of his brother when Dean can’t even take care of himself. It _doesn't_ help, though, when Dean texts him one night to let him know that he's tired of Sam and Benny babying him, and that he's kicked Benny out of his apartment for an unseen amount of time.

It makes matters worse when Benny calls him up to tell him that Dean isn't even at the apartment, and, yeah, maybe Sam freaks out a little.

Later, he'll find his brother piss drunk at a bar, which shouldn't really be a surprise, but Sam is angry about seven missed calls and thirteen ignored texts, so he ends up dragging Dean out by his arm. That's _rage_ there, he realizes, boiling under his skin. "What were you thinking?" Sam shouts once they've made it past the threshold. "You're supposed to be healing, you idiot, not going out and getting yourself drunk off your ass. What were you—"

"M'so tired, Sammy," Dean mumbles, the fight draining out of him, and Sam had to bear his weight on his shoulders, throwing Dean's arm across him.

Sam says nothing, but the computer in him reaches out for Dean's file. It scans it quickly, and then, somewhere in the middle, the word _unhappy_ gets pulled out, where it is then repeated and bolded and underlined, just for good measure.

Silently, he shoves the file away.


	3. if you wanted to know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I _know_ I'm practically a shame to society, I get it.
> 
> The thing is that I had some written down and I _was_ going to post that, but then I remembered how much I hated introductions, so I didn't want to stretch it out into more than one chapter.
> 
> On the plus side, things are going to be picking up from here, which ~~hopefully~~ means longer chapters and more characters.
> 
> (The downside is that I'm writing my fic for the reverse bang, and I don't know how long that's going to take, so that might mean that there won't be any more updates this month.)

He wakes up an hour and a half before his alarm goes off.

It takes a while for the adrenaline to wash out of his veins, but Dean is content with looking up at his water stained ceiling (which he'll gladly ignore the idea of fixing it for as long as he lives here which, sadly, looks like the rest of his life). His eyes drift around his room, settling on the desk in the corner and his half open closet and then his sort of open window, which brings in a cool breeze that has him clutching his duvet closer to his chest.

The sudden shift from dreaming to reality has left his heart thudding in his chest, echoing in his ears; it has left him unprepared for the harsh sting of _real_ each day seems to bring. He wonders, briefly, if he should wait out his rush and then go back to sleep, or if he should just get up and start his day.

His mind is a whorl of half forgotten dreams ( _memories_ , his mind supplies, because that’s what they always are) of light blue and clouds and the euphoric feeling of wind against his face. (It's a feeling he's tried hard not to remember.) He dreams, more often than not, about flying through the clouds, though sometimes it’s just him without the familiar feeling of sitting in a cockpit. Dean’s pretty sure that he’ll always be stuck somewhere between hating flying and wanting to do nothing _but_ fly, but sometimes it’s easier to imagine when he doesn’t have to imagine himself sitting in a plane, when he can imagine that he was born with it, born with wings that support him.

Today was a good dream, though— or, at least, not bad. There have been worse dreams (falling instead of flying), nightmares that leave his breath caught in his throat (abandoned and hungry and bloodied and bruised), where the only sense of comfort he can get is having the ground firmly under his feet (instead of the wind hitting you everywhere until you realize you don't have control of how fast it's able to pass you). He’s still unused to that, sometimes, finding comfort in the ground instead of the sky when it used to be the other way around, but so much has already happened since he was in the Navy that he's learned to adapt to it.

Mostly, Dean is too exhausted to worry about it, to think about the consequences.

About twenty minutes later (after watching his ceiling and letting thoughts of the sky overrun his mind), he slowly pushes himself out of bed, deciding there’s no harm in getting ready early. Besides— he’s finally, _fucking finally_ , starting work again, and Dean’s been aching for this for weeks after being confined to one source for so long. The stillness of his apartment has nearly driven him insane, and any chance to be out of it is a sweet relief.

Carefully, he folds his blankets up to the edge of the bed and even wastes his effort on fluffing his pillow. Being up so early is fine for now, but that also means that he has to find a way to find something to do between now and six.

Dean spends it instead trying to focus on watching some show on TV, but it can't hold his attention, not really, so he ends up sitting there letting his imagination get ahead of him. He watches the sun turn his blue walls into light shades of pink and orange and it takes him a while, afterwards, to realize that he should probably start moving.

He takes his time in the shower, letting probably-too-hot water release the tension in his shoulders. The warmth of it lulls him in, calms the leftover adrenaline in his limbs. Lazily, he scrubs shampoo in his hair and then afterwards he rubs slowly across his skin. He's pretty sure that he lapses back into sleep for a little bit because one second he's running his palms down his arms and then next his head is snapping up, suddenly more awake than he was before.

Dean's alarm goes off when he's making breakfast, and he curses at himself internally for forgetting to turn it off, especially when he decides to leave it on in favor of not letting his eggs burn. "Okay!" he yells, once the eggs are out of the way. "I get it! I'm awake!" (He's just glad Sam's not here, because he's pretty sure he looks ridiculous waving around his spatula and arguing with an inanimate object and if Sam saw, he’d never let him live it down.)

By the time six-thirty rolls around, he's already eaten and cleaned up after himself. He’s halfway out the doorway when suddenly he stops dead in his tracks. This is what he wanted, isn’t it? To go back to work, to get out of his apartment— _isn’t it_? Dean tells himself he's only slightly panicking because he hasn’t really been around anyone in months, but he’s not even sure he’s convinced himself because there’s a slight tremor in his hand when he goes to lock his apartment door.

The cool air helps, a little. But now he can’t shake the feeling that something’s off, so it results in him feeling jittery and desperate for something to get the edge off. A little over half a year ago he would probably be hoping for a bottle of beer right about now (who is he kidding? There’s still a small part of him that craves it, though he's been trying), but instead he reaches inside his jacket pocket to get his pack of cigarettes. (The cigarettes aren’t a substitution for the alcohol he tries not to drink, but instead a desire of its own. He wants it like some people crave for coffee each morning, like if he smokes enough it will wake him up out of whatever state he’s in.

It never works.)

Right off the bat, he drops the cigarette on the ground.

Now Dean's not a superstitious person (or, at least, he doesn't think so), so he's not _exactly_ expecting something to happen, but he carefully stores it in the back of his head and prepares himself for the worst.

 

* * *

 

“...You’re early.”

Jo’s squinting at him, standing next to the door with her apron dangling over her head as if she forgot she was taking if off. Smirking, Dean tells her, “You’re going to be late, if you don’t move it.”

Any suspicion she had wipes off of her face and she’s left with a glare that she uses full-force on Dean. “Haha, asshole. I _was_ going to welcome you back, but now you’ve wasted valuable time and I’ve got to run.” Jo finishes hanging up her apron, grabs her purse, and then blows him a kiss before squeezing past him and out through the back entrance.

Humming under his breath, he reaches out for his apron and pins his name tag on it from where it had been sitting in a small plastic bin on the floor. This is simple, easy, routine. This is something he's done nearly everyday for the past year with the exception of these last few months. Dean's more appreciative to the small fact that this is nothing new then anything else in his life right now.

He makes it out of the kitchen before a camera is shoved into his face. "What?" he sputters out, and then, "Sam?!" Still out of his element, he moves to push the camera away from his face, but by the time his hand comes up, Sam has already moved it out of reach, tilting the lens towards the ground.

“Morning.” Sam grins from ear to ear, obviously far too pleased about the fact that he’s managed to startle Dean, and, as every good older brother should, he’s going to have to do something about that later. Much, much later.

Grumbling, Dean picks at the fabric of his apron before he looks back up at Sam. “Hey to you too, bitch. What’s up with the camera?”

If possible, Sam’s smile grows wider, and Dean finds he likes it less than Sam’s patented _I can’t believe you’re my brother_ faces– especially when they’re being made at his own expense. “It’s for a class.”

“You’re going to school for _law_ ,” he kindly points out, placing his palms on the counter.

Shrugging, Sam replies, “I’m also taking theology courses, so what? I want my options open.”

Dean shakes his head, making his way towards the sink, where he can see a few already used dishes waiting to be cleaned. Sam follows after him, making sure to keep the camera pointed away from Dean. “It sounds like something that would be in a _Legally Blonde_ movie,” he tells Sam (and he’ll forever deny that he watched that movie and that it’s, quite possibly, his favorite Reese Witherspoon movie, but hey, what Sam doesn’t know won’t hurt him).

In disbelief, Sam questions, “Do you even know what _Legally Blonde_ is?” When there’s no immediate answer, he shakes his head. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

Eager to switch the subject, Dean brings up the camera again. “So, uh… What exactly are you supposed to be doing with it?”

Sam moves the camera from one hand to the other as if testing its weight before pointing it back up at Dean. “I’m supposed to be making a ‘movie’ of how my daily routine would go, except my professor wants it to be filmed and edited over the course of the year.”

Dean considers it. “So it’s like a video scrapbook?”

“Sure, let’s go with that,” Sam allows.

“Whatever. Just leave that thing off of my face, got it?” And before Sam can answer, Dean heads into the kitchen, leaving Sam alone with nothing but a camera to keep him company.

 

* * *

 

Castiel _gets it_. Really. He does.

He's the new staff and the mechanic has been here for most of his life– or, at least, that's how Sam makes it sound the few times he talks about his past, and Gabriel doesn't exactly help with the situation, not bothering to volunteer any information. However, he also hasn't asked, but it's never been much of a concern of his, either.

Nonetheless, Castiel understands. He's the newbie in the island so, of course, there has to be at least one person who has to make him feel this way.

He knew it, too.

It was too good to be true that everyone else had been more than welcoming. Hadn't it?

So, of course, it's the person who he meets last that treats him differently, and it _would_ work out that way, because the mechanic– he's stupidly beautiful, and it's just Castiel's luck that he is– just outright _ignores_ him when he tries to introduce himself.

It doesn't sting, doesn't hurt, but he hadn't been expecting it– how could be have been? So how else was he supposed to respond?

"Hey, you must be Dean," _stupid, of course this is Dean, what other staff member is there?_  "I'm Castiel. The new pilot." And yeah, okay, it sounds really stupid coming out of his lips like that but what else is he supposed to say?

He gets that the guy is doing something– dishes?– but he doesn't even turn to acknowledge Castiel, and he can't have fucked it up already, right? There's absolutely no reason for Dean to act the way he is towards him. Except he _is_ and now Castiel isn’t sure what to do with that because nothing like this has happened to him before.

But somehow that has gotten to _this_ , complaining to Anna hours after the fact when he should be checking the flight schedule, but it’s difficult to do so when Anna is giving him a look, and he really, really hates it when she gives him that look because it’s almost a guarantee that he’ll bend to her whims. “That mechanic is so rude. _Completely_ ignored me,” he finds himself explaining, and he _hates_ it, hates that it bothers him so much.

“Getting all wound up about hot pants mechanic already?” she teases, patting his chest with a smirk. But  _no, that's not what he meant_ and  _can't Anna just_ see _what the big deal is?_ Except he isn't really even sure of what the big deal is himself. Anna just raises an eyebrow at him, a question in there that Castiel doesn't want to answer, so she just shakes her head at him before leaving him alone with his thoughts, and he thinks he hates that even more.

Castiel shuts his mouth, blocks the thought from his mind, and keeps on moving.

 

* * *

 

Later, after Dean has been tinkering around in the plane’s engines for a few hours, he finds Sam standing by Ellen’s cafe. Across the room, he spots Anna standing next to the stranger whose name he still really isn’t sure about. “That new pilot is an ass. Hasn’t said a word to me.”

“I don’t know,” Sam says looking over at the two of them and smiling, (and something about the smile sets Dean on edge), “I like him.”

 

* * *

 

At lunch Ellen gets swamped, so he pulls away from the engine he was working on to help her out. “Where do you need me?” he asks with newly washed hands, trying to tie his apron on.

“Getting some orders in would be nice,” she tells him, going back to the stove where Dean’s almost sure something is really close to burning. Dean doesn’t know where Samandriel is, which sucks because people are starting to look irritated and he can already see more trying to place an order.

In between one order and the next, he almost doesn’t notice him, and then he does and suddenly the whole world seems to stop (everything is blue blue _blue_ ). There’s the pause, and then– everything seems to speed up faster than before and Dean blinks and feels like there isn’t anything under his feet to support him. He's not ashamed to admit that he's swung both ways, but this is different because the pilot is _gorgeous_ , and that won't do because Dean can't afford that, not when he's already decided that the pilot is an ass.

"Is grilled cheese on the menu?" he asks, and—  _what?_

Dean fumbles, a little, with the pen and notepad he's holding, and he doesn't really trust his voice at the moment, either, so he just stands there and nods like an idiot. He's not even really sure if something as simple as grilled cheese is on the menu, but he's willing to make it himself if he has to, because a customer is a customer and whatnot (which isn't totally a lie, but Dean's not about to admit to himself that he'd do it for a pretty face) and it's not like making grilled cheese is difficult, anyway, and—

"Are you okay?" the guy questions, because apparently Dean had been staring off into space.

Almost dropping his pen, Dean begins to back up towards the kitchen, nodding again. "Yeah, I'm— I'm fine. Great, actually. I just— Is that all you wanted? Grilled cheese, I mean?"

"Yes, that's it, thank you."

A blush is starting to creep up in his cheeks, which—  _shit_ — "No problem."

Before he pushes into the kitchen, he can see the pilot smirking, and  _fuck_ , he's so  _fucked_.

 

* * *

 

"You have to tell me his name," Dean demands, slapping his hands down on the lunch counter. The lunch rush had ended hours ago, but Anna is back from the small cargo delivery she had to make (thank God) so that means Dean can pester her about the new pilot while she tries to eat.

Anna, however, is not above making him wait, so she grabs her drink and sucks that down for what seems to be forever before asking, "Whose name?"

If they hadn't been friends for the better part of the past year, he would've reached across the counter and wrapped his hands around her throat (maybe). "C'mon, Anna.  _Please_ don't do this. Not now."

She rolls her eyes, picking up her burger. "His name is Castiel Engel."

While she bites into her food, he sits on this new information. It should be enough— all he wanted, after all, was a name (and, oh boy, he got one. It sounds a little religious, sounds a little odd, but Dean thinks it kind of fits him)— but suddenly he wants to know more, wants to know what his favorite movies are and if he drinks coffee in the mornings and what he does in his free time. He opens his mouth to ask more, but Anna beats him to the chase.

"He's twenty-six, Gabriel's little brother, and the only reason he really has this job is because he's broke as shit and Crowley gave it to him because Gabe talked him into it. I think it's a pity, though, because the guy  _did_ graduate from flight school at the top of his class, but Crowley's a cheap bastard so it's basically a wasted potential," she supplies. "But, you know, if you're looking for more personal info, he likes flying as much as Sam said you used to, from what I've seen. He also has this thing for burgers and French toast— not in the same meal, mind you— and I've seen him drink a lot more milkshakes than what should be entirely possible during an hour."

"Is that all you've got?"

Her smiles turns deadly dangerous, and she reaches out and begins to twirl a strand of hair around her finger. "You want more?"

A little suspicious, he nods and then props his elbows up on the counter, leaning forward to listen better.

"In that case," Anna tells him, "maybe you should just talk to the guy next time."

Dean isn't disappointed. He's  _not._ Anna is cold and cruel and malicious and, honestly, he shouldn't have expected any less from her, really.

(Except he totally is disappointed, but it doesn't matter. He's not going to get close to this pilot, not if he can help it.)

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is always appreciated and also insures the guarantee of my firstborn child


End file.
